


The Will of Raziel

by gaydaractivate04



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alpha Magnus Bane, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, BAMF Alec Lightwood, BAMF Magnus Bane, Catarina is Intimidating, Discrimination, Dramatic, Hurt Alec Lightwood, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Murder Trial, Nightmares, Omega Alec Lightwood, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revolution, The Clave Is An Asshole, They deserved it, Whump, its kinda dramatic ok, that’s what this is gonna be about, trial, y’all Alec is on trial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: When Magnus had received summons to Idris, directly from the Clave, he had not trusted it. There was no good reason for the Clave to want a Downworlder in the heart of their sacred city, not unless they were planning on getting rid of said Downworlder.He’d conferred with Catarina, not wanting to ignore the fire message, not with how strained the Accords were already. As it turns out, she had received summons as well.As had Raphael, being the current leader of the vampire clan, along with Luke Garroway, the alpha of the New York pack. The Seelie had been invited to send a representative as well, but they’d decided not to come, on account of orders from the Seelie Queen. They had all been asked to bring their seconds with them, for the privilege of witnessing the trial of a Shadowhunter.The Shadowhunter, who as the letter claimed, had murdered fellow warriors and would face justice, which was fair judgement before the leaders of all worlds.
Comments: 66
Kudos: 298





	1. (In)Justice At It’s Finest

**Author's Note:**

> I was excited to write this, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
> 
> I hope you like it!!
> 
> Just a heads up: there is some referenced non-con and underage stuff. This is not explicit, it happened in the past and is mentioned. Just in case you didn’t see the tags, you are now warned.

When Magnus had received summons to Idris, directly from the Clave, he had not trusted it. There was no good reason for the Clave to want a Downworlder in the heart of their sacred city, not unless they were planning on getting rid of said Downworlder.

He’d conferred with Catarina, not wanting to ignore the fire message, not with how strained the Accords were already. As it turns out, she had received summons as well.

As had Raphael, being the current leader of the vampire clan, along with Luke Garroway, the alpha of the New York pack. The Seelie had been invited to send a representative as well, but they’d decided not to come, on account of orders from the Seelie Queen. They had all been asked to bring their seconds with them, for the privilege of witnessing the trial of a Shadowhunter.

The Shadowhunter, who as the letter claimed, had murdered fellow warriors and would face justice, which was fair judgement before the leaders of all worlds.

To Magnus, it sounded like a twisted ploy to win the Downworlders back, to show that the Clave would punish their own when necessary, and would not be lenient on account of angel blood flowing in their veins.

To Magnus, it sounded like it wouldn’t work.

The Accords had been in jeopardy for the last twenty years, ever since Downworlders had discovered where their omegas were, those who'd gone missing in the past years after being a bit _too_ problematic in the eyes of the Clave.

A great force had been rallied, all those willing to fight marched on Idris and burned down the gates, breaking past the defenders to rescue their people. 

It was there, in the bowels of the great buildings, that they found their omegas, beaten and humiliated, many on their way to bearing unwanted children.

It was there that they discovered exactly how the Clave treated their own omegas.

The few that made it out of the city, as reinforcements poured from Institutes all over the worlds, said conditions were inhumane, filthy and miserable, worse than anything they’d ever seen.

Even fewer omegas made it out with their saviors, Shadowhunters viciously fighting to slaughter all invading forces, all rescued captives, all defenseless and wounded and hurt omegas -

It was no wonder the Accords were strained, a miracle that there wasn’t an all out war soon after.

So to say that Magnus did not trust these summons for a so-called “trial” was an understatement. It was more like _if I had to go to this, I’d go fully armed and prepared for a massacre._

That being said, he did have to be present at this trial, as High Warlock of New York and representative of his race, he was required.

Though the message didn’t say exactly those words, there was an underlying threat of “you can come or be held in contempt of the Accords”. Even if Shadowhunters broke their treaty a thousand times over, the Clave would take no notice.

One toe out of line, however, from the Downworlders' side, especially after the siege on Idris, would mean a promise of war.

Per the requests of Catarina and the other leaders invited to come, Magnus sent out subtle feelers into the Shadowhunter community, contacting people he hadn’t spoken to in decades.

One contact responded promptly, reassuring Magnus that the trial was legitimate, that the heads of various Institutes and several direct members of the Clave would be present as well as him.

He went on to explain, in the short, blunt manner only a Shadowhunter can have, that many were looking forward to this event. It was said that the criminal had killed four seasoned warriors in cold blood, a child caught in the crossfire dying along with them.

Magnus relayed this information to his Raphael’s people, trusting them to get the message to him directly.

He did the same for Luke, knowing that the wolves of his pack didn’t trust Magnus enough to allow him to deliver the message himself, at least not with how new Luke’s position still was.

Magnus spoke with Catarina once he’d done this, alerting her to the possibility of an armed guard once they arrived at Idris, reminding her that she needn’t come, not with the High Warlock himself going as well.

She scoffed and reminded _him_ that someone needed to be there to reel him in should things turn out like the last gathering with Downworlders held by Shadowhunters.

The six of them met on the edges of the New York Institute’s grounds, waiting for the invitation to approach the building, as they’d so _graciously_ offered them the use of their portal.

It was almost as if the Clave didn’t trust them to portal their themselves, as if the Clave thought they’d bring an army behind each of them, ready to destroy the esteemed city of Raziel.

Oh wait.

Luke hadn’t brought his second, a charming werewolf Magnus had worked with a few times in the past, instead a younger woman who he introduced as Maia. Though she was wearing fairly good scent blockers, he still caught the faint whiff of omega scent as she shook his hand.

It was strange that Luke would allow an omega of his pack to enter a city filled with those who hated their kind. Then he spotted the scars encircling her neck and met her steely gaze, realizing that Luke had not _allowed_ her to come.

He probably couldn’t have stopped her if he’d tried.

A quick nod of respect and understanding was all that was exchanged between the two of them before a Shadowhunter approached, unarmed, as they were.

At least, unarmed from what they could see.

The six of them were escorted into the building, a pair of Shadowhunters falling in behind them while another joined their leader at the front.

They were led directly to a vast library, through silent halls and past closed doors, a surprising lack of Shadowhunters for such a well known Institute.

Then the door to the library opened.

At least three dozen Shadowhunters were gathered there, carefully leaving a clear path towards the swirling portal, lining the walls and leaning on railings that overlooked the rest of the room.

Magnus could feel the weight of their gazes on them as they descended down the curving stairs, Luke and Maia tense behind him, while Raphael and his second sauntered by at the back.

They were stopped before they could actually _enter_ the portal, likely for some ridiculous last minute check of their defenses, making sure the _filthy Downworlders_ hadn’t left some hole in the wards, hadn’t left a landmine to blow in their absence.

It was almost as if they weren’t trusted.

Magnus fiddled with his jewelry as they waited, Catarina leveling a cool and unconcerned gaze at any who dared stare at her mark for too long.

It was at that moment that he recognized a pair of Shadowhunters standing nearby, a young woman with long dark hair and a man, his gold hair shining in the lights.

Isabelle Lightwood and - _what was his name? Trace? Jake? Something like that_ \- her adoptive brother. He’d met the delightful Isabelle when she’d managed to get into one of his clubs while on a mission, armed to the teeth, and killed a demon inside of it.

Like he hadn’t sensed it passing through his wards already, but he’d spotted her squad and had wanted to see what they’d do.

After a rather rocky start, the two of them had hit it off, often meeting up at various clubs and dancing until the sun started to rise, prompting Isabelle to return to her Institute. 

He was even more flattered when he was assured that she had no attraction to him, simply wanted a friend who “wasn’t a fucking lightweight”, as she’d said, her words aimed at her brother. 

He’d seen that man drink various patrons under the table, so he’d assumed that it was an inside joke between the two of them.

That was why, in a damned Institute, surrounded by people who believed him to be monstrous at birth, he sent a smile her way, a little wave as she smiled back.

The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He pitched his voice low, mindful of the listening ears that stood nearby. 

Isabelle sighed, taking half a step closer to the group, careful to keep her hands away from her weapons as she neared. The other Shadowhunters were preoccupied, less than half watching them, while the remainder swept the room, double checking for any last traps or spells.

_Paranoid bastards._

There wasn’t much of a cause he could think of that would make her seem so mournful, her eyes rimmed with red as they met his, mouth a tight, thin line. 

“Did you know one of the victims?” He couldn’t say that he really cared for having four less killers to hunt his people on the streets, but if she knew the _child_ -

Well. He wasn’t about to brush her grief off.

The blond one behind her looked like he was trying to silently signal Isabelle to back up, don’t tell them, we’re in the Institute, _people will see_ -

“No,” she said, reluctance heavy in her voice. “But I knew the killer.”

“Oh.” That was all he could think to say. After all, how exactly do you reassure a friend when they find out someone they knew, someone they may have been close with, just killed a few people and now stands on trial for their crimes? “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” She rubbed at her arms as she backed up again, watching as the Shadowhunter who’d led them there returned. “I am too.”

The man was quick about it, explaining to them how the portal worked, telling them to not let go of their guides under any circumstances, as if they aren’t talking to the warlock who invented them.

Magnus didn’t say a word, nodding along to his condescending explanation, a demure smile pasted onto his face. He only smirked when he corrected the Shadowhunter on a point he’d missed, the man not knowing how to react as Magnus smiled at him.

This smile was all teeth, more of a threat than anything else, the alpha in him preening at the quick flash of fear that crossed the man’s face.

After that, the Shadowhunter cut his _much_ needed lecture short, prompting the group to pass through the portal, hands clenching the arms of those assigned to escort them through.

A moment of muddled movement, the magic of the portal thrumming through his body, his own magic calling back out to it - and they were out, the guide stumbling a step as they landed in a great courtyard, cobblestones beneath their feet.

Magnus turned as he heard the others land behind him, most having better luck with the landing than his “guide”, who had apparently kept stumbling a few more steps after Magnus let him go to check on the rest of the Downworld leaders.

Of course, they’d saddled him with the only Shadowhunter in the whole Institute who could barely go through a portal.

Raphael and his second had practically strolled through the entrance, their guide edging away from them far quicker than what was polite, a pair of serpentine smirks following her.

Luke and Maia were standing next to Catarina, arms crossed at the stares they were all getting as Shadowhunters passed through the courtyard, evidently curious of the visitors.

Many looked more hostile than curious.

_What a surprise._

Their guides’ leader wasted no time, clapping his hands once to get their attention - _as if they weren’t already watching him_ \- before turning and leading the group towards a towering, impressive building on the other side of the courtyard.

A pair of guards flanked the entrance, spears in their hands, standing at attention as they neared. The two stepped farther to the side at a wave of the leader’s hand, a deferential “sir” falling from their lips.

They didn’t look any of the Downworld leaders in the face as they passed by, instead watching their movements, likely cataloguing every way to kill and subdue them, fingers twitching on their weapons.

Magnus couldn’t stop himself from smirking when the younger of the two flinched, Maia having gotten just a _little_ too close to him, free hand jumping to his waist.

The smirk, along with his loose movements, worked to conceal the slight twisting of his fingers, preparing to call on battle magic, should any of it go too far.

There was, thankfully, no need for it, as they were quickly and quietly led into the building. A long hallway spread out in front of them, white marble accented with silver, busts and various weapons nestled in alcoves between columns.

If there had been any Downworlder trophies, the great building would have crumbled in seconds, with a quick snap of Magnus’ fingers.

The Shadowhunter leading them - _you know what, let’s call him Blondie. He’s blond and if Magnus has to refer to him as “the leader” as one more time, he may just throw himself into Edom_ \- didn’t pause as he strode forward, heading straight towards a pair of tall doors, the dark wood bracketed and reinforced by strips of metal.

As if that wasn’t reassuring enough, yet another set of guards awaited them, this time a group of four, spears in hands, blades on belts.

Raphael had sidled up next to him, his voice low as he muttered to Magnus, eyes trained on the Shadowhunters before them. “If this is a trap, you will leave me the blond one to bring back with us to Dumort.”

Magnus only smirked slightly, a bob of his head acknowledging his friend’s words. There were times he couldn’t tell if Raphael was joking, and times he could.

Raphael was not joking.

All thoughts of dismembered Shadowhunters faded from his mind as the doors swung open, Blondie not moving to accompany them into the vast room that waited beyond them.

He didn’t pause as he strode past the doorway - _you mustn't show hesitation around them, they will begin to think that they’re the predators_ \- Catarina close behind him.

The trial room looked more like a theater than anything else. A theater in the sense that there was a stage, rows and rows of stiff wooden benches receding from it, an overlooking balcony high above them, smaller private balconies scattered throughout the walls. 

There were no curtains, no pomp and finesse that accompanied plays, even those that were a tragedy.

And it was certainly as tragedy they were about to witness, as every Shadowhunter in the overflowing room was clothed in white, the colors of grief. Of death.

Little intakes of breath behind Magnus were the only signs of his companions’ surprise, the shock of seeing so many warriors clothed for a funeral.

Another Shadowhunter approached them, motioning with a hand as he escorted them towards the single empty area, a few rows of benches, seated directly next to people Magnus recognized as various Clave representatives, heads of Institutes, and well known figures in their community, their families seated with them.

It seemed the Clave was doing their best to not cause any offense towards the Downworlders, perhaps to wanting to risk an argument in their capital.

Or, more likely, wanting to be able to pin any blame of an incident, should one happen, on the leaders who’d agreed to come. That way, when they committed _genocide_ , they’d have the full support of their people behind them.

The benches were uncomfortable as they sat down in them, the curve of the back forcing the occupants to sit straight or stretch their legs out and slouch obscenely.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long for the trial to begin, the hall falling silent almost instantly, the synchronization of it making Magnus’ nerves shake for the first time as he glanced around the hall.

A single man stepped out onto the stage, heading towards the stone podium on the right side of the raised platform, his stiff walk and expressionless face marking him as the new Inquisitor, his predecessor having passed in a battle just a few months previously.

The Inquisitor’s face looked vaguely familiar, likely from one of the many bad memories Magnus associated with the Shadowhunters, though he couldn’t place where he’d seen him.

The man cleared his throat - _unnecessarily, the hall was already silent, not a whisper sounding_ \- before he spoke, his voice deep and rough. “The trial has begun. Bring the guilty out to face the justice of Raziel.”

Of course, invoking their angel before a trial, making it seem as if all the proceedings were by the choice of the angels, a will the Inquisitor himself couldn’t deny.

A pair of guards entered the room, likely from a side door off the stage, a holding cell directly connected to it, practically carrying a sagging figure between them.

They headed towards the rune that dominated the center of the platform, anchoring chains that trailed from the prisoner’s wrists to metal loops Magnus hadn’t noticed previously. They left the prisoner to drop as they backed away, the sharp sound of knees hitting marble echoing through the room.

_They certainly hadn’t been gentle in taking him down_ , he thought, as he looked over the man who now kneeled on the ground, head up and shoulders back, every inch a portrait of defiance.

The Shadowhunter had been stripped of his shirt, left in a pair of black sweatpants, no socks or shoes covering his feet. Welts and bruises criss crossed over his chest and arms, thin scabs adorning his elbows and shoulders, like he’d been handled just a little _too_ roughly through small spaces.

His hair was matted on one side, a dried trickle of blood on his neck, a black eye and split lip a testament to how hard they had to fight him to bring him down.

There was a surprising lack of runes on his torso, several of the permanent ones Magnus knew to recognize were simply not there. Then, the air inside the hall shifted and his scent blew their way.

Omega.

And one that hailed from a very powerful lineage, if the strength of his sweet scent was anything to go by.

In Idris, omegas were not permitted to wear scent blockers, instead being used as breeding stocks, only untouchable if they were already married or promised to someone.

They were also not trained completely, not given certain runes used in combat, such as _strength_ or _agility._ It was clear that this man, though he’d probably ceased training once he’d presented as an omega, had continued to work out, all lean muscle and coiled strength.

The Inquisitor spoke again, snapping Magnus out of his idle thoughts, his voice booming through the hall.

“Omega.” He said the word like it was a name, rather than an unnecessary title. “You stand guilty for the murders of four warriors of Raziel. Do you deny these charges?”

“No.” The man’s voice was hoarse, breaking into a cough after the single word.

The Inquisitor went on, face twisted in a sneer. “For the death of Michael Lightwell, age thirty seven, you stand guilty. Do you deny this?”

“No.”

“For the death of Maxwell Greylaw, age twenty eight, you stand guilty. Do you deny this?”

“No.”

The Inquisitor named each of the adult victims, providing their age each time, and every time the kneeling Shadowhunter did not deny it. If anything, he only looked more defiant, more angry with each person listed.

“For the death of Elizabeth Ashwood, age thirteen, you stand guilty. Do you deny this?”

A shudder ran through the man chained down at the mention of the child, his head bowing for a moment before he answered. “No.”

A sick sort of triumph is gleaming in the Inquisitor’s eyes as he looks down on the omega chained below him. He keeps his face professional, the cold mask a combination of hate and indifference, if there ever were such a thing.

_Something's not right._

There’s more to the story, there has to be. There’s no reason for the Inquisitor to look so triumphant, not when the charges are practically undeniable, not when there’s no defense for the omega’s crimes.

“By the order of the Clave, by the Justice and Mercy of Raziel, you are sentenced to death for the lives you have taken.”

The dark haired man doesn’t flinch, raising his chin and staring over the heads of the gathered Shadowhunters, his shoulders squared and tight, the only sign of his tension.

“Do you have any final words to speak before the Angel?”

Such ritualistic words, that question.

A Shadowhunter, no matter how grevious the crime, is always allowed their last words once they are sentenced at their trial. If they are denied it, it is thought of as going completely against the Angel’s will, denying the wishes of Raziel.

Even the Inquisitor, at a murder trial with multiple victims, the killer being an angel forsaken _omega,_ wouldn’t dare to deny that.

“Yes.” The prisoner’s words are sharp, clipped and fast. As if he’s expecting his last opportunity to slip from beneath his feet, to turn to water in his hands and leak through the cracks.

“Then you may speak, and may the Angel have mercy.”

The first words out of his mouth come to no surprise to Magnus, no surprise to the Downworlder leaders who’d agreed to come, though it causes a ripple through the ranks of the Shadowhunters.

“I am not sorry for killing those four men,” he says, casting a scowl at one of the guards on the stage as they reach for a weapon at their side. “I’m not sorry at all. They were not men worth knowing, they were not warriors worthy of Raziel’s blessings.”

The omega turns, just shuffles to his left a bit, chained as he is, and looks directly at a small crowd near the front of the stage. _Families_ , Magnus realizes. Those silent but tear stained faces are the families of the victims.

“I am sorry for the grief I leave behind. I am sorry for the children who will grow up without their fathers.” His voice loses his cold quality for a moment, just a moment as he speaks. “No one should have to go through that.”

The man glances once at the Inquisitor, then back at the crowd, a little to the right of it, where a single grieving Shadowhunter stands, apart from the rest.

A young woman, likely an older sister or daughter, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I am sorry for the death of Elizabeth.” His voice breaks at her name, and _oh no, no, he didn’t want to kill her, something happened_ \- “She was a child. She was a child and now she is dead, dead at my hands.”

Magnus call feel Catarina suck in a breath beside him, going stiff and angry, as she always does when children are concerned, when children are hurt as this one was, never mind that she was a Shadowhunter -

“I will not _deny_ that I killed her, but I will tell you this,” the omega says, gaze going hard and cold and sharp once again. “Elizabeth begged me to end her life.”

And

_Oh. That was not what he was expecting._

A ripple runs through the gathered warriors at that truth, at the idea that a child would ask for death. It was clearly nothing they had considered, the young woman now stock still, staring into the eyes of the chained man.

“She was an omega too; she presented at twelve and was transferred to Idris as soon as she did, to be used as a _breeding stock_ ,” he snarls, and Magnus doesn’t doubt that this omega is more dangerous, more vengeful than anyone else in the huge, silent room.

Luke has placed a hand on Maia’s shoulder, squeezing hard, likely in an attempt to keep Maia grounded as the omega on the stage speaks.

Magnus doesn’t know the full story of those scars that ring her neck, but he’s heard enough to know that this trial, these circumstances, are nothing if not horrible for the young werewolf to watch.

There’s a pause, as if the prisoner is taking a moment to ground himself as well, to stave off a feral episode that is minutes away, sharp claws tipping his fingers.

“Elizabeth was pregnant.” His voice doesn’t come out in the harsh whisper he’d expected or the snarl he’d seen before. Instead, the omega’s voice is strong and clear, his words ringing to every corner of the room, ensuring that no one misses them.

Strong and clear, as if Magnus’s heart hadn’t shuddered in his chest, as if Raphael and his second weren’t so still and shocked they forgot to pretend to breath, as if Luke hadn’t jolted like he’d been shocked and Catarina wasn’t seething beside him, her normally mild beta scent leaking past the scent blockers, fury coloring it.

As if it wasn’t a horrible truth, one the Downworlders hadn’t believed until now.

They’d all heard the horror stories of how Shadowhunters treated their omegas, as if they were weak and useless, barely worthy of carrying the children they were made to create.

They’d heard the rumors of how young these Shadowhunters were, how young they died at, even in the care of their fellow warriors.

They’d thought it all to be just that. Rumors. Words with a hint of truth in them that were so twisted up and warped by the mouths they had passed between, that they were worth nothing and meant nothing.

It seems they were all mistaken.

For the first time since he received the summons, Magnus truly wished they’d brought an army behind them, to tear down the walls of Idris and leave trails of bodies in their wake.

To save any omega within the city, to save them from a terrible fate.

“Those _men,_ ” says the prisoner, spitting out the word as if it were barely worthy to be spoken. “Gave her that child. I didn’t know which one had done it, so I took them all.”

Took.

A curious choice of words. He said he took their lives from them, took them from their friends and family. Took their lives, whether out of revenge or anger or grief.

Took them as some sort of payment, in exchange for what they did to the young Shadowhunter girl.

Magnus can’t help but feel his respect for the chained omega surge upward. In his place, he’s sure he would have done the same for Elizabeth.

“And the Clave will kill me for this,” the man says now, not sounding angry as he had before, but rather resigned, as if knowing he can’t escape this fate. As if he never meant to escape it at all. The man looks to the Inquisitor, who watches him impassively, not a flicker of emotion on his face. “You are going to kill me, father.”

The Inquisitor hardly blinks, and that is when Magnus manages to match his face with a name.

Robert Lightwood.

Robert _Lightwood_ is the new Inquisitor and that is his _son,_ the boy he and Maryse had been pardoned for, who they’d given away to Idris and had tried to pretend like had never existed.

The Downworld had heard the story, of course. The Lightwood family, forever shaming their name no matter how clean they lick the Clave’s boots.

It had all been said in mocking voices, how the Lightwood couple had gotten what was coming for them, how their son reflected their deficiencies. 

Underneath it all were the murmurs of sympathy and concern, of what would happen to the boy, as his parents would undoubtedly sell him to the Clave and leave him at their mercy. Those murmurs had quickly been silenced by calls of, _“Don’t you remember what they did to us?”_ and _“He’s their brat. Why do you care so much?”_

“My name is Alec Lightwood.” The omega holds his head high, high and defiant, over the murmuring and whispers of the crowd. Magnus feels Catarina suck in a breath as she makes the connection too. 

“My name is Alec Lightwood and I am twenty years old.” Alec is staring - no, glaring directly at a woman near the back of the crowd, her dark hair pulled back from her face. _His mother._ “I presented when I was fourteen years old and was brought here immediately. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my siblings when they took me.”

Isabelle had said she knew the killer. She never said how, never said that it was her older brother, someone she’d lost as a child.

It was probably breaking her and Jace apart to hear news of him this way. To know they’d never get to say goodbye either.

“I have borne four children and I haven’t held a _single one,_ ” His voice breaks on the last word, grief shining in his eyes. “Not one. They were whisked away to be cared for and I was left to recover, because I am an _omega,_ and in the eyes of the Clave, in the eyes of the Shadowhunters, I am not worthy of touching my own children.”

Magnus thinks Luke has stopped breathing in front of him, in sharp reminder of what his own mate faced at the hands of her last husband.

Alec’s eyes have strayed to the group of Downworlders at the front, meeting their eyes one by one before he looks over the crowd of Shadowhunters again. “The Downworlders got it right.”

His eyes and voice are as cold as ice, hands clenched at his sides, blood slowly dripping between his fingers, his claws likely fighting for an appearance.

Those were not words Magnus had ever expected to pass the lips of Shadowhunter.

Alec is still talking, sharp and loud, over the protests building in the crowd of warriors, their pride miffed at hearing an _inferior_ race was supposedly better than them.

“I’ve heard how they treat their omegas,” he says, ignoring the derisive laugh that comes from the Inquisitor - _his father_ \- the first reaction the man has given during the entire trial. “They treat them as equals, as partners, in any relationship, whether they are bonded or not.”

Alec Lightwood says these words with a sort of reverence, as if the idea of equality were a dream, perfect yet unattainable. 

“The Downworlders _treasure_ their omegas.” He’s leaning towards the crowd now, leaning towards the gathered Shadowhunters, trying to get them to understand. “They don’t punish their own people for something they have no control over.”

A pause, and then:

“They don’t punish their children for being who they are.”

The woman who stood alone at the front, likely an older sister of Elizabeth Ashwood, is nodding in response to Alec’s words, tear tracks shining on her face.

A reminder that, despite every single thing Shadowhunters are taught from the moment of their birth, not all agree with their own teachings.

“You don’t deserve us.” Alec says it with such finality, not brooking any argument, not allowing any other conclusion. “You do not deserve us and you do not deserve to use the Angel’s name and call it justice, call it mercy.”

The tension in the cavernous hall is rising, Shadowhunters in the crowd resting their hands on their weapons, the guards lining the walls shifting and tightening their grips on their spears, readying for an attack, an explosion.

They are looking at the chained omega as if he were about to leap from the stage and in the crowd before him, striking left and right, killing as many warriors as he can.

From how dark the bruises on Alec’s arms and shoulders are, Magnus doubts he’d be able to lift a weapon, let alone wield it.

He doesn’t pose a physical risk to the Clave, doesn’t pose a risk to the white clad warriors before him.

His words, though.

Those are what is truly dangerous.

Within the crowd, Magnus can see Shadowhunters looking doubtful, looking from Alec to the Downworlder leaders to themselves and those around them.

Shadowhunters of all ages, all generations, questioning the trial before them, thinking of the evidence produced and matching it with the story told. Finding the holes in their ideals.

Most, by far the majority, look unswayed, lips curled in sneers or eyes narrowed in glares as they listen to Alec’s words.

It is those few that matter, though, those few that will think for themselves.

Alec seems to know this, looking again at the Inquisitor behind him, a snarl on his lips as he stares at his father.

“You have forsaken the Angel and His teachings,” he says, and Magnus can feel the power his words carry, his magic tremoring in response. “You will not rise to the Angels as you were meant to, you will not pass through the gates of their Land.”

The ritualistic words were of an old ceremony, one from centuries ago, one Magnus had only managed to find scraps of, detailed in decaying journals from Shadowhunters of old.

The ceremony was used when a warrior had broken their peoples’ morals so completely that they did not deserve to keep their title, the name of their family that they had carried all their life no longer theirs. 

A warrior who had done such a thing would be cast out, forgotten and forsaken, not even stories told with their presence mentioned.

“You are not Worthy of your titles, you do not deserve your Gifts.” The omega’s voice carries through the room, as his Angel was ensuring not one Shadowhunter missed his words. 

Alexander Lightwood looks over the people crammed inside the hall and smiles.

It is not a kind smile, it is not a forgiving smile.

It chills Magnus to his very bones.

“When Edom rises, I hope it swallows you whole.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this one shot at you*
> 
> *runs*
> 
> Hey y’all!
> 
> Hope you liked the story!!
> 
> Please, please let me know what you thought and if there’s any parts you liked especially :) 
> 
> Thanks for the read!!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!!
> 
> Also: Anyone interested in a series in a little while? If so, any ideas for said series?
> 
> Edit: So I will continue this. Jus gotta finish up the series I’m writing and we good to go :)


	2. The Power of the Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said this would be a long time coming
> 
> I know I said I wouldn’t update for a few months longer
> 
> But, well, y’all bookmarked it or whatever, so you probably want to read more. This chapter is a little shorter than the other, though it’s still almost 4,000 words.
> 
> I was just in one of those moods, you know, where you can write/draw/create something specific but not anything else
> 
> And I was supposed to be writing a chapter for one of my other fics but I got distracted and read the first chapter of this, turned up my music, and started writing.
> 
> So
> 
> I hope you enjoy

Magnus feels a force go through him at those words, right through the core of his tightly coiled magic, blue sparks appearing at his fingertips. The power is not painful, it is not harmful. It does not try to take his power or use it, instead simply passing it - _as if the sparks had been a reaction, an acknowledgement of another Great_ \- to spread throughout the crowd.

Like a wave spreading from the center of a pond, the stone that started it sinking to the bottom. Magnus’ eyes snap to the ~~_stone_~~ omega chained, defenseless, in the center of that big, cold, marble platform and knows what he has done. 

There is a breath taken in unison, as the gathered Shadowhunters feel the wave of power hit them, rippling over their ranks. Their runes flare for a mere moment, gold shining through the marks, before the energy dissipates, fizzling out as it ricochets from the walls and back again.

A suffocating silence settles over the cavernous room, tension roiling and bubbling up, a pot moments from boiling over as the warriors wait for his words to ring true -

As they wait for a rip to appear in the very fabric of the world, for hordes of demons to pour out, staining their precious glass city red and black -

“May the Angel have Mercy on you as you depart from this world and go on to the next.” The words are sharp, biting, condescension edging each consonant and vowel. It is the Inquisitor, trying to gain control of the situation, a sneer twisting his face.

Alec doesn’t cower as the man nears, taking the customary position at his right, beckoning someone at the edge of the room with a glance. 

He doesn’t cower as a woman, dressed in the same white mourning clothes as every warrior in the room, hands his father a huge, ornate, double-edged sword. The sword looks more fit to be sitting in a treasury, collecting dust, than it does to be in the hands of a mortal - in the hands of anything less than Divine.

He doesn’t cower as the Inquisitor adjusts his grip on the blade, raising it to shoulder height and turning, lowering it slowly so the metal rests lightly on the omega’s neck.

It isn’t until the Inquisitor raises the sword - _so beautifully crafted, not meant to be used for this_ \- that Magnus realizes what it is about to happen, images of rolling heads and puddles of blood spiraling to the forefront of his mind.

He doesn’t realize that he’s called on his magic until he feels a hand clamped tight around his own, shocking him to the present. It’s Catarina, crushing his power to dust as she curls his fingers shut beneath her.

There are tears shining in her eyes when Magnus looks over at her, the warlock’s lips clamped tight together. It was a rare thing for her to cry, rarer still for her to cry over a Shadowhunter.

He can’t help but believe this is a moment worthy of every tear given.

The omega, the warrior kneeling before them all, keeps his head raised, eyes fierce and accusing as he stares them down. Invincible. Indestructible. 

Powerful, in one word.

Then the sword is falling, Robert Lightwood swinging it down with hate and loathing shining in his eyes as he kills his own flesh and blood, the metal flashing in the light - 

The blade is slicing into Alec’s neck, crimson spilling to the floor -

This time, it is Alec who takes a breath. A deep inhale, one that should be impossible from the position he’s in, sucking all that power from the corners of the hall, from the souls who deflected and absorbed it, from the very air that surrounded them.

The sword shatters to pieces as it cuts into the surface of Alec’s skin, the sound louder than a gunshot, louder than a cannon. Magnus can feel the wave racing inward, returning to its source, to its caster, as the omega surges upward, manacles breaking from his wrists and chain links splitting as he rises.

There’s a moment of stillness, a flash of calm in a sea of chaos, as the power meets Alec, becoming a visible force, a twisting golden light as it joins the soul residing inside his body.

Then Alec smiles, eyes flaring gold and runes lit from within, and the storm breaks.

The people on the stage are blasted back, reaching for nothing as they fly through the air, meeting the walls with cracks and thuds, limp as they slide to the ground. Alec swipes an arm out in front of him, a presenter flinging aside a curtain to announce the next act, blasting a shockwave of golden light so wrought with power that the air crackles around it.

Golden light meets Shadowhunter, and it is clear that this is no show, no trick or illusion.

Magnus sees the white garbed warriors reaching for the weapons at their sides, sheathed on their backs or against their legs, all in vain. The force spares only the Downworlders, rippling through them, leaving a warm, welcoming feeling behind.

Every Shadowhunter in the room falls, flung through the air before crashing to the ground, some given lighter landings then others. Among those with a gentler impact, Magnus see’s Elizabeth’s sister, her arms catching her just before her skull smashes against the marble beneath her.

Alec’s voice rings out again, louder than humanly possible, and it is not wholly his. 

The commanding tone draws all attention back to him, to his form at the edge of the glorified platform, Shadowhunters suddenly unable to grasp the hilts of their swords, legs weak and useless beneath them. And it is not the omega that speaks then, it is not his words leaving his throat.

A glow grows within his body, one that could only be described as _heavenly,_ illuminating the panes of his face, the runes burned in his skin and the scars decorating every free patch of it.

**“You do not Deserve them, so you shall Have them no longer.”** So similar to Alec’s earlier words, though those did not carry the same weight as these did, the very material of the world struggling to support them. The sound of them are grating, as if they do not belong and are barely contained where they reside.

The glow brightens, flaring, as the lanterns lining the walls dim and flicker out, leaving Alec - Alec’s body as the only source of light in the entire vast, cold hall.

For it is indeed just his body that remains on that stage, the shadows of wings stretching behind him, climbing the walls as his light strengthens, fluttering and shifting as the Angel steps forwards, movements too smooth and predatory to be of this world.

That voice thunders out once more, that of a hundred of souls and a single one, the gold in its eyes flaring in time with the words. **“You have Lost them. They shall not be Returned until you are Deserving of them. Do nothing, and they shall not be Returned at all.”**

The words are nothing if not an order, command ringing in every harsh constant and clipped vowel, a sense of finality settling as they are cast out.

A crack ricochets through the room, vibrations spreading as the fabric of the world realines, the heavy presence that loomed over them all returning to its home, far away and unreachable. Magnus feels the tremors that travel from person to person, starting in the center of the room and heading towards the walls, as the words take their meaning, the Angel exacting its price. The Nephilim shake with the force of it, many crying out or groaning in pain as it fades.

Alec, the first Shadowhunter in centuries to successfully summon an Angel, stands at the edge of the platform, chest heaving as he stares out at the shocked warriors, eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him, body and will his once again.

The omega wavers, knees buckling slightly beneath him, head dipping towards his chest as he tips, falling towards the dropoff -

And disappears, right as he collapses completely, blinking out of existence as if he were never there.

Almost on cue, the deep tolling of the alarm bells of Alicante sounded.

The doors to the trial room are slammed open, woods slamming against marble, a virtual horde of Shadowhunter pouring into the room, seraph blades out and at the ready. Magnus wanted to laugh at the expressions on their faces as they took in the empty platform, shattered metal strewn over it, those gathered to witness the trial now struggling to their feet, many unconscious or unresponsive on the floor.

As it were, Magnus did not laugh, didn’t let even a hint of a smile grace his lips, for they were still a group of Downworlders in the heart of the Nephilims’ most sacred city. He would not allow his amusement to put the lives of his companions in jeopardy. 

Catarina was carefully still beside him, her grip on his hand since relinquished, her face the perfect portrait of shock. Luke and Maia were shoulder to shoulder, hands in front of them, resting against their pants, in a motion that could be described as casual, were it not for their tight shoulders and the glare Maia was sporting.

Lily and Raphael stood tall together, immortal wrath edging their smirks as the new Shadowhunters, clothed in black - unlike their brethren - swarmed the room, shouts ringing out as they asked what had happened, _where did he go._

Magnus schooled his own face into cool indifference, looking only at the Downworld leaders around him as a group of Nephilim made their way towards them, blades still out and lit.

He saw no need in making this easier for them. Doubtlessly, whatever Alexander had managed to do, whatever the Angel had done, it was irreversible.

Even so, the Shadowhunters seemed to want to find ways to pin the blame of every minor inconvenience on the Downworld. Though this was not considered minor, it was one of those said times where they chose their scapegoat and stuck with it.

“You will accompany us to meet with the Consul.” A woman at the head of them spoke as she stopped a scant four feet from Raphael, being the nearest Downworlder. The warriors behind her spread out, making their way around the delegates, effectively surrounded them.

You _will_ meet with the Consul. Not even trying for the farce of giving them an option.

It was Lily, Raphael’s second, who responded, her voice cold and ageless and bored. “We would be honored.”

The Shadowhunters forced a pathway through their people, enclosing the Downworlder delegates inside a wedge, as if for their protection. Magnus can feel that prickling between his shoulders that signals eyes on him.

Casting his own gaze around and finding practically all the Nephilim in the hall watching as they departed, glaring through the escort, murder in their eyes, he brushes it off. As said before, Shadowhunters love to blame everything on the Downworld.

After all, how could a warrior blessed by the Angel be anything less than perfect?

_Nevermind the droves of murders, the slaughter of thousands of innocents, the omegas and the horrors that happened to them._

Then, Magnus glances a little farther behind him, and it is only because of years of training himself that he does not stumble. For, in the midst of the shouting crowd, stands two Shadowhunter women, one light haired, the other’s black as ink.

Both staring directly at him, not lowering their eyes or glancing away as he returns their stares. Not glaring at him, not sneering with the loathing that accompanies all other gazes, just watching him as he goes.

It isn’t until he’s halfway into the hallway with the rest of the delegation, that Magnus realizes the dark haired one had far less runes than the other, her hand wrapped tight around the other woman’s arm.

A bonded omega, present in a trial that all omegas were barred from.  
  


He doesn’t have time to contemplate the implications of that before they are led farther from the hall, not-so-gentle nudges and pushes given whenever one of them slows, all the way up until they stand before a tall pair of doors, the dark wood carved with the images of Nephilim warriors battling demons, the towers of Alicante pictured behind them.

The doors are opened from the inside, slowly, the well oiled hinges working smoothly, not creaking as one would expect from such an obviously ancient part of the building. It would have reminded Magnus of one of those delightful mundane horror movies, the moment before the true villain was introduced.

Sadly, it was not that scene from the film, as the Inquisitor’s office was likely farther down the hallway, with less ornate doors.

From what he’d heard of Jia Penhallow, she was fair and would listen to the case as it was presented to her, only using torture and other methods when it was deemed absolutely neccessary. She was, at least, as fair as a Shadowhunter can be.

The Consul was still a traditionalist, believing in the superiority of Alphas, the superiority of Nephilims in general, though she was said to have become less harsh when her own daughter presented as an omega.

Magnus had his doubts.

The Shadowhunters escorting them broke from formation as the Downworlder delegates entered the room, not following after them, instead positioning themselves in the hallway, guarding all exits and entrances. 

They really were the most paranoid bastards on the planet, weren’t they?

Inside the office, two Shadowhunters, armed to the teeth, blades glinting in places they shouldn’t be able to fit, flanked the sides of a vast desk, papers littering its surface. The woman herself sat behind it, in a gilded chair more fit for a throne room than here.

Though, by the way she sat in it, you could almost believe she was holding court, the Downworlders being her humble supplicants. 

The doors shut behind them with a boom that Magnus felt through the floor, an additional pair of Shadowhunter guards pushing them closed. Those doors likely weighed more than every object in the room put together.

“Thank you for meeting with me, I appreciate your compliance in this matter.” Ever the politicians, those Clave officials. The Consul was no exception. Thinly veiled politeness, false niceties, those were their specialties and she was the very best at them.

“And what matter, exactly, is that?” It had been a long while since Magnus had heard Catarina sound that cold. It seemed that he was not alone with his thinning patience, as the Consul shuffled papers on her desk - _all for show, likely patrol reports and casualty details_ \- Luke’s fists clenching and slowly opening, an attempt to keep his shift in check.

“There is a matter of security that I must speak with you about. You must understand, these trials are very rare occurrences,” _A lie._ “And with your company present, many concerns arose, particularly when it came to your... _peoples’_ beliefs when it comes to the natural order.”

“If you mean to arrest us and throw us in the Gard, I suggest you think very carefully before doing so.” Raphael’s tone, unlike Catarina’s, was rich and silky smooth, that of a businessman closing a deal he was particularly happy with.

He supposed that they’d all gotten rather good at masks over the years.

“I don’t _mean_ to do anything,” said the Consul, her smile razor sharp and hard, so sure of her victory. “You will be held here under the suspected assistance of a known criminal. It is a crime, here in Alicante, though I do hope you were aware of that before you committed the crime.”

“We didn’t -”

Jia Penhallow cuts Maia off smoothly, that shark’s grin not wavering from her face. “You did, and besides, who will care if you didn’t? Certainly not anyone with _real_ power.”

There it was. The trap they always fall into, those who are so sure of their superiority. “If you’ll forgive my interruption, Consul, but you are forgetting something.” You have to play the game with them to come out on top, and _oh, how he’s been waiting for this._

“You may continue, Warlock Bane.”

“It’s _High_ Warlock Bane, I should hope that hadn’t slipped your mind before you brought us here.” He finally allows a little of the immortal wrath to flicker onto his face, allows the glamour he used to dampen the power, the _otherworldliness_ rolling off of him, drop. “As Coven Leader Raphael said, you should think very carefully before you proceed.”

Play the game, use the titles and phrases and smiles.

“Did you really think we came here without a fail safe? Did you really think we trusted you at all?” He puncuates his questions with a laugh, low and dangerous. 

Consul Penhallow stares back at him, her face giving away nothing. The slight tightening of her grip on the stack of papers in her hands is the only shift. Magnus knows he has her, knows they’ll walk out of the office today on their own accord.

“We are the leaders of our people, _the_ _leaders of New York._ And you thought we’d forgotten where we were going?” Magnus smirked, hands in his pockets, an eyebrow raised as he looked down at the speechless Shadowhunter. “It takes two portals to get in and out of Alicante, one on either side. That means, my dear Jia, there are people waiting for us back home. If we do not return with the hour, unarmed and whole, all of the Downworld will know what you have done. I don’t think you want a war on your hands as well, do you?”

He had to give her credit; she contained her emotions very well. The papers in her hands returned to the desk, her features smooth and serene. The Consul looked at him, at the leaders beside him, and dipped her head once.

_Touché._

“Open the doors,” she orders, raising her eyebrows when the guards at the door did not immediately comply. Through the doorway, Magnus could see the Shadowhunters spread across the hall coming to attention, confused looks on their faces.

They’d obviously expected the ‘meeting’ to go a while longer - and definitely didn’t expect its outcome. “Escort them to the Portal and allow them through.” The six of them didn’t wait for her to bid them their leave, simply walking into the hall, a few quiet laughs from the vampire pair sounding as they went. “And High Warlock Bane?”

He didn’t miss her sudden use of his proper title. “Yes, Consul Penhallow?”

“If you do find anything that would help with the recovery of our fugitive, be sure to send a fire message. You will be rewarded for any information you give.” He had no intention of following her request, but nodded anyways.

“Of course, Consul.”

The walk to the Portal was quiet, the hallways barren of Nephilim, the loudest sound being their own footsteps. Magnus can feel how on edge the Shadowhunters escorting them are, far more wary of the delegates than they had been at first.

Wary, as they should be.

No longer trying to tamp down on the power that they each had, the Downworlder delegates made a formable group, striding through the hall, werewolf eyes reflecting light and vampire feet making no sounds on the stone. The torches themselves flickered as he and Catarina passed them, the Nephilim around them glancing nervously between the leaders and each other, gauging how likely it was they’d need to fight.

They rarely put on a show, flaunting their strength, as they did now. But with the residue scent of omega pain and Alec’s words burned into their minds, Magnus thought the Shadowhunters lucky that they were not there to break the Accords.

The room containing the Portal was behind yet another pair of carved doors, a pair of guards in front of it, one knocking a pattern into the wood as they arrived, signalling the doors to open at their approach. It was likely that Jia had sent ahead messages to let them pass, for there was no hesitation here with allowing them inside.

The Consul wanted it over with, wanted the Downworlders out of the Glass City, far away and without passage back. Always so protective, the Nephilim. They’d learned their lesson after the assault on the walls and the escape or death of nearly all their omegas.

A Shadowhunter woman activated the Portal, needing no words or confirmation to allow them to leave. A good soldier, as they all were. The Portal swirled for a moment before opening completely, signalling that the other side was supporting it as well.

Ragnor, along with other representatives from the various Downworld communities, waited on the other side, on the floor of Pandemonium, closed for this use. Magnus stepped through, the others filing in behind him, Luke taking up the rear. 

They needed to inform their people of what they’d seen, warn them of the possibility of harsher regulations and a growth in Shadowhunter patrols. The bit about an omega summoning an Angel and condemning all of the Nephilim wouldn’t be left out in the report.

Magnus thought he knew what he was walking into, out of all the things that had happened today. He was prepared to greet Ragnor, field any pressing questions away before giving his account of the events, and head home a few hours later, his bed so welcoming and warm.

Instead, Ragnor practically pulled him forward as soon as he stepped through the Portal, an accusing look on his face. “What did you do?”

Apparently, fielding questions away came sooner than he’d thought.

“I’m sorry, my dear cabbage, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I can tell you how the trial went when we’re all ready -”

“I’m not talking about the trial,” his friend said, a startling mixture of anger and concern in his voice. “I’m talking about this.” Ragnor punctuated his words with a wave of his free arm, right one still wrapped in Magnus’, to the room behind him.

To the room filled with Shadowhunters of all ages, at least thirty total, many appearing to be either asleep or unconscious on the floor, others sitting beside them and very few standing. Out of those laying down, Magnus saw Alec, his head resting in the lap of a woman with long, brown hair that brushed his face where she bent over him.

A second longer, and Magnus saw the lack of permanent runes, lack of weapons and proper Shadowhunter gear, the people’s scent hitting him like a battering ram. Omegas. 

Pandemonium was filled with Shadowhunter omegas.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this addition!! It’ll be like another month or two before I update again, but rest assured, this will not, under any circumstances, be abandoned. (Unless I’m dead, but that’s different)
> 
> Lemme know what you thought and what parts you liked!! Hope y’all have good days and good starts to the school year (if you’re in school)!!!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy.


	3. Abandoned.

For a moment, for one critical, terrible moment, Magnus froze, eyes wide as he took in the scene before him, the scent of pain and misery and  _ hurt _ clouding the air.

Then Catarina was pushing past him, Luke following closely, heading towards the closest group of omegas, Catarina’s hands already sparking with magic as she crouched down next to a girl–one who couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

“How…” His voice died in his throat, Raphael’s elbow slamming into Magnus’ ribs as he continued to stand there, hands limp at his sides.

“Go help them,” Raphael hissed, expression sharp with anger, rather than his usual indifference. “Your sparkles must be useful for something.”

_ His sparkles- _

Yes, his magic could be useful, could be used for healing. For burning out infection or obliterating poison before it can reach the heart, not for the more delicate procedures likely needed with these wounded Nephilim.

Magnus heard Catarina call his name, the sharp way she always did when something was urgent, when she had no time for whatever frivolous scheme he was planning. He turned to face her on instinct, already running in her direction before he could see the reason behind her alarm.

The girl, the teenager she’d been examining, was laying flat on the ground, her head lolling to the side, eyes half open and glazed. Her shirt, if the thin and translucent material could even be called that, was pulled up to expose the bottom half of her torso.

As he neared, Magnus tried to reel in his scent, a skill he’d nearly perfected after dealing with biased– _ or scared _ –clients for years, after being involved in too many courts and political dances in his time.

It was only when he dropped to his knees beside the pair that he could see the wound to its full extent, a cut branching from her side and leading down to the opposite hip. 

“Straight line,” he murmured, eyeing the oozing fluids and swollen skin. “Made by a blade and left untreated.” Gently, he settled a hand on the girl’s shoulder, closing his eyes to better concentrate. “Bound to slow the bleeding, or else she’d have lost a lot more blood.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten all of that.” Catarina’s tone, in contrast to her sharp words, was anything but. She was using the calm, professional cadence she spoke in around flighty patients. “You are going to destroy the infection and I will heal behind you.”

_ You will. _ A direct order, no suggesting or asking. A general on her battlefield.

Good thing Magnus wasn’t delusional, and knew who commanded the field at the moment. 

He did not reply besides a quick nod, taking one hand from her shoulder to join his other where it hovered above the wound, small twists of the fingers weaving a web of magic.

He had to be careful with this, careful not to burn nerves away or worsen the injury. He’d have to do enough damage that the infection was eradicated, but not enough that Catarina would have trouble healing his path up.

Slowly, Magnus lowered his hands until they met too-warm skin, ignoring the gasp from the girl and closing his eyes, the magic shuddering as it surged to be released.

He lowered it in slowly at first, casting it in a web, searching for the very edges of the infection, for the heat and pain caused by it. As he felt Catarina rallying her magic beside him, Magnus steadied himself, breathed, and  _ burned. _

He swept his magic through the wound, forcing it after every sick part quickly, rushing to complete the chase so that the true healer, the real life saver, could save the life of the girl.

As soon as he felt the last of the infection die, as soon as he felt the teen’s temperature lower incrementally, Magnus lifted his hands and backed away, giving his friend space to work her magic.

Literally.

Catarina’s healing was swift, the nurse pushed to speed up the process with so many other injuries around them. He watched, now standing, as the cut sealed over, the bloody gash replaced with a thick scar, then, a pink line. 

His friend paused only long enough to check the girl’s pulse, before she stood again, Maia taking their places, jacket in hand to wrap around the other omega’s shoulders.

Catarina led the way to the next injured, a young man this time, bruises ringing his throat and splattered across his face, dried blood smeared on a temple with fresh blood joining it.

Magnus joined his fellow warlock on the ground, legs folded beneath him, closed his eyes, and began again.

  
  


________________

  
  


The thing about healing, about saving lives rather than taking them, is how much control it takes each time to seal a wound or pull a virus from a pair of lungs. It was a larger strain on a warlock’s power, to find the balance between life and death.

Catarina was drained by the time they’d healed everyone, her normally vibrant blue skin awash with grey. Magnus was swaying where he stood, vision worryingly fuzzy on the edges.

Maia had taken over with helping the omega Nephilim after they’d been healed, clothing appearing from who knows where, baby wipes and hair brushes in place of sorely needed showers.

Magnus didn’t know why he was surprised; the young werewolf had presented omega as she’d been Turned, and had had to claw her way up to a position of power and respect.

The compassion showed as she kneeled beside a Shadowhunter who couldn’t have been a year older than her, movements telegraphed and slow as she helped the other woman into a sweatshirt, in contrast to her usual sarcastic self.

A presence at his side drew Magnus from his thoughts, as he turned instinctively, to be met with one Alec Lightwood, who was supported by a member of Luke’s pack.

He didn’t bother to conceal his shock as he took in the omega, who swayed on his feet despite the werewolf holding him up. The man shouldn’t have been able to  _ stand, _ let alone walk.

But, he supposed that a combination of Catarina’s magic and fear numbed the pain and obvious exhaustion well enough, for that  _ was _ fear shining in the blue eyes of Alec.

“Alec,” he started, but it sounded wrong. “Alexander, you need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Came the denial, but the omega’s words were slurred, if just barely. It was a stark contrast to the loud and sure voice as he spoke during the trial, then the booming one of the Other when it took over. “We have things we need to discuss.”

As he said this, Alexander gestured over his shoulder, the werewolf -  _ Gretchen? Gretel? Something like that _ \- shifting to support the movement. Behind the Shadowhunter omega stood three more of his kind, all looking far better off than him.

“...Alright. Follow me.” There wasn’t much privacy in the main room of Pandemonium, not unless Magnus felt like leading four injured omegas up a flight of stairs to reach the second level, a sort of receiving and meeting area when Magnus held court for the Downworld.

And he was sure that no one present wanted him directing them to an enclosed room, distant and out of sight of the main floor. 

Instead, Magnus simply led the group to the other end of the room, out of earshot of even the New York Pack. He knew Ragnor and Luke had likely noticed their little entourage, knew that Catarina had as well, even as she chose to stay with her remaining patients.

The space he led them to had a few tables nearby, and it took but a snap of his fingers to push them together and rearrange the chairs in a proper fashion. Catarina would have his head if any of those four Nephilim collapsed from standing for too long.

Raphael melted out of the shadows as they arrived, Luke joining them in a less dramatic fashion. Magnus caught his two other friends exchanging a distinct look, one that said  _ make sure he doesn’t mess this up, _ before Ragnor reached them.

_ Really? _ He thought they were all past that incident in Peru.

“Is this suitable?” Magnus asked, gesturing to the three tables now formed into one, the chairs distributed evenly alongside them. “No one else will be able to hear us, if what you have to speak about is sensitive.”

It would only take a moment to erect a proper shield, to silence their voices to outsiders completely. 

He pretended not to see the quick glances between Alec and one of the other omegas, a woman with dark brown hair and trembling hands. He pretended not to see the hesitant expressions, wary eyes and raised eyebrows.

Perhaps if he pretended well enough, if they took him up on his offer for complete privacy, if they accepted that no harm would come to them or their people, they’d sit down before they passed out and Catarina wouldn’t kill Magnus.

“We’re fine speaking without such a ward.” It was a man standing beside Alec who answered, this time. His hair would’ve been a shock of red, had it not been coated in a mixture of grime and dried blood.

_ Well, they certainly aren’t close to trusting us. _

The ward would’ve been created by Magnus’ power–his to manipulate and his to take down, whenever he chose. The Nephilim wouldn’t be able to sense if he changed its function, if he cloaked both sound and vision, leaving an illusion to be seen by the others filling Pandemonium.

He wasn’t shocked by the suspicion–really, he’d be surprised if his motives  _ weren’t _ questioned, but he’d hoped to be given a little more credit.

Instead of voicing those thoughts, Magnus simply nodded, gesturing down at the table and chairs. “Then let us talk.” Without waiting, without giving the silent pause a chance to stretch, he pulled back the nearest chair and sat in it, forcing himself to maintain a relaxed disposition.

_ Please, for the love of god, sit down. _

Alec, unsurprisingly, sat first. He seemed to be the unspoken leader of the group, first to approach and ask to  _ discuss things, _ first to sit when invited as a show of peace. His fellow omegas followed after him, expressions varying from blatant hostility to blank slates.

“What was it that you wished to talk about?” It seemed that Magnus had been given the ‘unspoken leader’ position as well.

  
  
  


________________

Hey y'all. So sorry to disappoint. I know I've left ya hanging for like four months (longer? a lot longer?) and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for giving anyone false hope about me continuing this.

I love this story, I do, but I started it with the intention to make it a one-shot. I don't have a plot, I have Vibes. And I don't want to give you shitty writing because of that.

So, this is the fourth of a chapter I'd managed to write -- someone might as well read it.

To make it clear: I am abandoning this story. If someone wants to adopt it or straight up take the idea, lemme know. I'd love to read what you come up with. Again, sorry to disappoint, the few of you who were waiting on it, but I don't have any idea for what's coming next.


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